Complete Poetical Works

     (1864)

     There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps,
     Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps,
     Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,
     And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer.
     There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death,
     Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath,
     Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,—
     There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves.

     Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip,
     Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip;
     But beware the false footstep,—the stumble that brings
     A deadlier lash than the overseer swings.
     Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread,
     As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head;
     Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest,
     Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest!

     Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men,
     In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?
     Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade
     To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made;
     Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away,
     Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play;
     And then to your heel can you righteously doom
     The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!

     Last night, above the whistling wind,
       I heard the welcome rain,—
     A fusillade upon the roof,
       A tattoo on the pane:
     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
       A warlike trumpet blew;
     Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,
       A softer voice stole through.

     "Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice,
       "That He who sent the rains
     Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew
       That drips from patriot veins:
     I've seen the grass on Eastern graves
       In brighter verdure rise;
     But, oh! the rain that gave it life
       Sprang first from human eyes.

     "I come to wash away no stain
       Upon your wasted lea;
     I raise no banners, save the ones
       The forest waves to me:
     Upon the mountain side, where Spring
       Her farthest picket sets,
     My reveille awakes a host
       Of grassy bayonets.

     "I visit every humble roof;
       I mingle with the low:
     Only upon the highest peaks
       My blessings fall in snow;
     Until, in tricklings of the stream
       And drainings of the lea,
     My unspent bounty comes at last
       To mingle with the sea."

     And thus all night, above the wind,
       I heard the welcome rain,—
     A fusillade upon the roof,
       A tattoo on the pane:
     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
       A warlike trumpet blew;
     But, mingling with these sounds of strife,
       This hymn of peace stole through.

     (RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 12TH MAY, 1871)

     Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come:
     For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home;
     And my leg is getting troublesome,—it laid me up last fall,—
     And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball.

     And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right,
     This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight.
     "The Union,"—that was well enough way up to '66;
     But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics?

     No?  Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad,
     I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad.
     And week from next is Conference....  You said the twelfth of May?
     Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!

     Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it?  Ye mind that narrow front:
     They called it the "Death-Angle"!  Well, well, my lad, we won't
     Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say
     I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May.

     How's Thompson?  What! will he be there?  Well, now I want to know!
     The first man in the rebel works! they called him "Swearing Joe."
     A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then—
     Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men.

     And Dick, you say, is coming too.  And Billy? ah! it's true
     We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?
     A little field below the hill,—it must be green this May;
     Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day.

     Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop
     The tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop.
     So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?
     Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May.

     (1869)

     We know him well: no need of praise
       Or bonfire from the windy hill
     To light to softer paths and ways
       The world-worn man we honor still.

     No need to quote the truths he spoke
       That burned through years of war and shame,
     While History carves with surer stroke
       Across our map his noonday fame.

     No need to bid him show the scars
       Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate,
     Who lived to pass its shattered bars,
       And see the foe capitulate:

     Who lived to turn his slower feet
       Toward the western setting sun,
     To see his harvest all complete,
       His dream fulfilled, his duty done,

     The one flag streaming from the pole,
       The one faith borne from sea to sea:
     For such a triumph, and such goal,
       Poor must our human greeting be.

     Ah! rather that the conscious land
       In simpler ways salute the Man,—
     The tall pines bowing where they stand,
       The bared head of El Capitan!

     The tumult of the waterfalls,
       Pohono's kerchief in the breeze,
     The waving from the rocky walls,
       The stir and rustle of the trees;

     Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope,
       In sunset lands by sunset seas,
     The Young World's Premier treads the slope
       Of sunset years in calm and peace.

     AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR

     "I was with Grant"—the stranger said;
       Said the farmer, "Say no more,
     But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
       For thy feet are weary and sore."

     "I was with Grant"—the stranger said;
       Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,—
     I prithee sit at my frugal board,
       And eat of my humble store.

     "How fares my boy,—my soldier boy,
       Of the old Ninth Army Corps?
     I warrant he bore him gallantly
       In the smoke and the battle's roar!"

     "I know him not," said the aged man,
       "And, as I remarked before,
     I was with Grant"—  "Nay, nay, I know,"
       Said the farmer, "say no more:

     "He fell in battle,—I see, alas!
       Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,—
     Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be,
       Though it rend my bosom's core.

     "How fell he?  With his face to the foe,
       Upholding the flag he bore?
     Oh, say not that my boy disgraced
       The uniform that he wore!"

     "I cannot tell," said the aged man,
       "And should have remarked before.
     That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,—
       Some three years before the war."

     Then the farmer spake him never a word,
       But beat with his fist full sore
     That aged man who had worked for Grant
       Some three years before the war.

     (WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884)

     No, I won't,—thar, now, so!  And it ain't nothin',—no!
     And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;
     And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"
     And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"
     Till I'm sick of it all,—so I am, but I s'pose
     Thet is nothin' to you....  Well, then, listen! yer goes!

     It was after the fight, and around us all night
     Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight;
     And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed,
     And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:
     And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh
     But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.

     And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring,
     But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing,
     And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree,
     As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me;
     And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go,
     When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.

     When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw
     On the gate-post his bridle, and—what does he do
     But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat,
     And he says—well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT;
     'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this,
     Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted—a kiss.

     Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad,
     You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,—
     You ain't near big enough."  And I turned in a huff,
     When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff,
     And he says, "You're a trump!  Take my pistol, don't fear!
     But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."

     Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool,
     Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool,
     When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light
     From the top of the little stone fence on the right,
     And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all
     Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!

     Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head
     Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead;
     And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite
     Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!
     Went off—true as gospil!—and, strangest of all,
     It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall!

     Thet's all—now, go 'long!  Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong,
     And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong;
     But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might,
     In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight;
     And as for the Major—sho! gals, don't you know
     Thet—Lord! thar's his step in the garden below.

     (NEW JERSEY, 1780)

     Here's the spot.  Look around you.  Above on the height
     Lay the Hessians encamped.  By that church on the right
     Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers.  And here ran a wall,—
     You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.
     Nothing more.  Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,
     Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

     Nothing more, did I say?  Stay one moment: you've heard
     Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word
     Down at Springfield?  What, no?  Come—that's bad; why, he had
     All the Jerseys aflame!  And they gave him the name
     Of the "rebel high priest."  He stuck in their gorge,
     For he loved the Lord God—and he hated King George!

     He had cause, you might say!  When the Hessians that day
     Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way
     At the "farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,
     Sat alone in the house.  How it happened none knew
     But God—and that one of the hireling crew
     Who fired the shot!  Enough!—there she lay,
     And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

     Did he preach—did he pray?  Think of him as you stand
     By the old church to-day,—think of him and his band
     Of militant ploughboys!  See the smoke and the heat
     Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat!
     Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view—
     And what could you, what should you, what would YOU do?

     Why, just what HE did!  They were left in the lurch
     For the want of more wadding.  He ran to the church,
     Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road
     With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load
     At their feet!  Then above all the shouting and shots
     Rang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em!  Boys, give 'em Watts!"

     And they did.  That is all.  Grasses spring, flowers blow,
     Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
     You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball—
     But not always a hero like this—and that's all.

     DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSION
     INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 1864

     We meet in peace, though from our native East
     The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast
     Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red
     With darker tints than those Aurora spread.
     Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed
     In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield,
     Still striving upward, in meridian pride,
     He climbed the walls that East and West divide,—
     Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand,
     And sapphire seas that lave the Western land.

     Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose
     From his high vantage o'er eternal snows;
     There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings—
     Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings;
     There bayonets glitter through the forest glades—
     Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades;
     There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave—
     Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave;
     There the bold sapper with his lighted train—
     Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain;
     Here the full harvest and the wain's advance—
     There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance.

     With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond
     Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond?
     Why come we here—last of a scattered fold—
     To pour new metal in the broken mould?
     To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face,
     To Caesar, stricken in the market-place?

     Ah! love of country is the secret tie
     That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky;
     Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore,
     We meet together at the Nation's door.
     War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down
     Like the high walls that girt the sacred town,
     And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart,
     From clustered village and from crowded mart.

     Part of God's providence it was to found
     A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground;
     Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest
     Planted these pickets in the distant West,
     But He who first the Nation's fate forecast
     Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past,
     Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time
     Should fit the people for their work sublime;
     When a new Moses with his rod of steel
     Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal,
     And the old miracle in record told
     To the new Nation was revealed in gold.

     Judge not too idly that our toils are mean,
     Though no new levies marshal on our green;
     Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small,
     Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall.
     See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line;
     There Mercy follows with her oil and wine;
     Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm
     Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm.
     What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow
     And hurl its legions on the rebel foe?
     Lo! for each town new rising o'er our State
     See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate,
     While each new factory lifts its chimney tall,
     Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall.

     For this, O brothers, swings the fruitful vine,
     Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine:
     For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear,
     Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year;
     For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed,
     Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast.
     Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere,
     She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear;
     Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose
     Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows;
     And the example of her liberal creed
     Teaches the lesson that to-day we heed.

     Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand
     To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land;
     As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall
     Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall,—
     Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below
     Sees but the arching of the promised bow,
     Lo! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen,
     And the whole valley wakes a brighter green.

     And you are the poet, and so you want
       Something—what is it?—a theme, a fancy?
     Something or other the Muse won't grant
       To your old poetical necromancy;
     Why, one half you poets—you can't deny—
       Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her,
     But sit in your attics and mope and sigh
     For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky,
     When flesh and blood may be standing by
       Quite at your service, should you but greet her.

     What if I told you my own romance?
       Women are poets, if you so take them,
     One third poet,—the rest what chance
       Of man and marriage may choose to make them.
     Give me ten minutes before you go,—
       Here at the window we'll sit together,
     Watching the currents that ebb and flow;
     Watching the world as it drifts below
     Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow:
       Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?

     Well, it was after the war broke out,
       And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris;
     Papa had contracts, and roamed about,
       And I—did nothing—for I was an heiress.
     Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps
       Knitted some stockings—a dozen nearly:
     Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps;
     Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps
     Quite at a profit.  The "shoulder-straps"
       Thought I was pretty.  Ah, thank you! really?

     Still it was stupid.  Rata-tat-tat!
       Those were the sounds of that battle summer,
     Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat,
       And every footfall the tap of a drummer;
     And day by day down the Avenue went
       Cavalry, infantry, all together,
     Till my pitying angel one day sent
     My fate in the shape of a regiment,
     That halted, just as the day was spent,
       Here at our door in the bright June weather.

     None of your dandy warriors they,—
       Men from the West, but where I know not;
     Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray,
       With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot:
     And I opened the window, and, leaning there,
       I felt in their presence the free winds blowing.
     My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,—
     I did not dream they might think me fair,
     But I had some flowers that night in my hair,
       And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.

     And I looked from the window along the line,
       Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn,
     Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,
       And a dark face shone from the darkening column,
     And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,
       Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together,
     And the next I found myself standing there
     With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair,
     And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,
       Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.

     Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer,
       A rush of figures, a noise and tussle,
     And then it was over, and high and clear
       My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.
     Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,
       And slowly and steadily, all together,
     Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,
     Rising and falling and swaying wide,
     But bearing above them the rose, my pride,
       They marched away in the twilight weather.

     And I leaned from my window and watched my rose
       Tossed on the waves of the surging column,
     Warmed from above in the sunset glows,
       Borne from below by an impulse solemn.
     Then I shut the window.  I heard no more
       Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither,
     But lived my life as I did before.
     I did not go as a nurse to the war,—
     Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,—
       So I didn't go to the hospital either.

     You smile, O poet, and what do you?
       You lean from your window, and watch life's column
     Trampling and struggling through dust and dew,
       Filled with its purposes grave and solemn;
     And an act, a gesture, a face—who knows?—
       Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,
     And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows
     And down it flies like my red, red rose,
     And you sit and dream as away it goes,
       And think that your duty is done,—now don't you?

     I know your answer.  I'm not yet through.
       Look at this photograph,—"In the Trenches"!
     That dead man in the coat of blue
       Holds a withered rose in his hand.  That clenches
     Nothing!—except that the sun paints true,
       And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.
     And that's my romance.  And, poet, you
     Take it and mould it to suit your view;
     And who knows but you may find it too
       Come to your heart once more, as mine did.

     Where the short-legged Esquimaux
     Waddle in the ice and snow,
     And the playful Polar bear
     Nips the hunter unaware;
     Where by day they track the ermine,
     And by night another vermin,—
     Segment of the frigid zone,
     Where the temperature alone
     Warms on St. Elias' cone;
     Polar dock, where Nature slips
     From the ways her icy ships;
     Land of fox and deer and sable,
     Shore end of our western cable,—
     Let the news that flying goes
     Thrill through all your Arctic floes,
     And reverberate the boast
     From the cliffs off Beechey's coast,
     Till the tidings, circling round
     Every bay of Norton Sound,
     Throw the vocal tide-wave back
     To the isles of Kodiac.
     Let the stately Polar bears
     Waltz around the pole in pairs,
     And the walrus, in his glee,
     Bare his tusk of ivory;
     While the bold sea-unicorn
     Calmly takes an extra horn;
     All ye Polar skies, reveal your
     Very rarest of parhelia;
     Trip it, all ye merry dancers,
     In the airiest of "Lancers;"
     Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,
     One inch farther to the tide,
     Nor in rash precipitation
     Upset Tyndall's calculation.
     Know you not what fate awaits you,
     Or to whom the future mates you?
     All ye icebergs, make salaam,—
     You belong to Uncle Sam!

     On the spot where Eugene Sue
     Led his wretched Wandering Jew,
     Stands a form whose features strike
     Russ and Esquimaux alike.
     He it is whom Skalds of old
     In their Runic rhymes foretold;
     Lean of flank and lank of jaw,
     See the real Northern Thor!
     See the awful Yankee leering
     Just across the Straits of Behring;
     On the drifted snow, too plain,
     Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,
     Just beside the deep inden-
     Tation of his Number 10.

     Leaning on his icy hammer
     Stands the hero of this drama,
     And above the wild-duck's clamor,
     In his own peculiar grammar,
     With its linguistic disguises,
     La! the Arctic prologue rises:
     "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,
     Seein' ez 'twas all they had.

     True, the Springs are rather late,
     And early Falls predominate;
     But the ice-crop's pretty sure,
     And the air is kind o' pure;
     'Tain't so very mean a trade,
     When the land is all surveyed.
     There's a right smart chance for fur-chase
     All along this recent purchase,
     And, unless the stories fail,
     Every fish from cod to whale;
     Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,—
     'Twould be strange if there should be,—
     Seems I've heerd such stories told;
     Eh!—why, bless us,—yes, it's gold!"

     While the blows are falling thick
     From his California pick,
     You may recognize the Thor
     Of the vision that I saw,—
     Freed from legendary glamour,
     See the real magician's hammer.

     (A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868)

     Very fair and full of promise
     Lay the island of St. Thomas:
     Ocean o'er its reefs and bars
     Hid its elemental scars;
     Groves of cocoanut and guava
     Grew above its fields of lava.
     So the gem of the Antilles—
     "Isles of Eden," where no ill is—
     Like a great green turtle slumbered
     On the sea that it encumbered.

     Then said William Henry Seward,
     As he cast his eye to leeward,
     "Quite important to our commerce
     Is this island of St. Thomas."

     Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee,
     But we cannot stand the Yankee
     O'er our scars and fissures poring,
     In our very vitals boring,
     In our sacred caverns prying,
     All our secret problems trying,—
     Digging, blasting, with dynamit
     Mocking all our thunders!  Damn it!
     Other lands may be more civil;
     Bust our lava crust if we will!"

     Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing
     Through its coral-reef lips flashing,
     "Shall I let this scheming mortal
     Shut with stone my shining portal,
     Curb my tide and check my play,
     Fence with wharves my shining bay?
     Rather let me be drawn out
     In one awful waterspout!"

     Said the black-browed Hurricane,
     Brooding down the Spanish Main,
     "Shall I see my forces, zounds!
     Measured by square inch and pounds,
     With detectives at my back
     When I double on my track,
     And my secret paths made clear,
     Published o'er the hemisphere
     To each gaping, prying crew?
     Shall I?  Blow me if I do!"

     So the Mountains shook and thundered,
     And the Hurricane came sweeping,
     And the people stared and wondered
     As the Sea came on them leaping:
     Each, according to his promise,
     Made things lively at St. Thomas.

     Till one morn, when Mr. Seward
     Cast his weather eye to leeward,
     There was not an inch of dry land
     Left to mark his recent island.
     Not a flagstaff or a sentry,
     Not a wharf or port of entry,—
     Only—to cut matters shorter—
     Just a patch of muddy water
     In the open ocean lying,
     And a gull above it flying.

     (SEPTEMBER, 1779)

     I

     "Have a care!" the bailiffs cried
       From their cockleshell that lay
     Off the frigate's yellow side,
       Tossing on Scarborough Bay,
     While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away.
     "Take your chicks beneath your wings,
       And your claws and feathers spread,
     Ere the hawk upon them springs,—
       Ere around Flamborough Head
     Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red."

     II

     How we laughed!—my mate and I,—
       On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck,
     As we saw that convoy fly
       Like a snow-squall, till each fleck
     Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck;
     And scuffling back to shore
       The Scarborough bailiffs sped,
     As the "Richard" with a roar
       Of her cannon round the Head,
     Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead"

     III

     But the devil seize Landais
       In that consort ship of France!
     For the shabby, lubber way
       That he worked the "Alliance"
     In the offing,—nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!—
     When tumbling to the van,
       With his battle-lanterns set,
     Rose the burly Englishman
       'Gainst our hull as black as jet,—
     Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met!

     IV

     All alone, though far at sea
       Hung his consort, rounding to;
     All alone, though on our lee
       Fought our "Pallas," stanch and true!
     For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew:
     And, like champions in a ring,
       There was cleared a little space—
     Scarce a cable's length to swing—
       Ere we grappled in embrace,
     All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face!

     V

     Then awoke all hell below
       From that broadside, doubly curst,
     For our long eighteens in row
       Leaped the first discharge and burst!
     And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst.
     And as dumb we lay, till, through
       Smoke and flame and bitter cry,
     Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have you
       Struck your colors?" Our reply,
     "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky!

     VI

     Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay
       Like a herring gasping here;
     Bunker of Nantucket Bay,
       Blown from out the port, dropped sheer
     Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer
     As with his own right hand
       Our Commodore made fast
     The foeman's head-gear and
       The "Richard's" mizzen-mast,
     And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last!

     VII

     Yet the foeman, gun on gun,
       Through the "Richard" tore a road,
     With his gunners' rammers run
       Through our ports at every load,
     Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed.
     Yet with entrails torn we clung
       Like the Spartan to our fox,
     And on deck no coward tongue
       Wailed the enemy's hard knocks,
     Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks.

     VIII

     Then a thought rose in my brain,
       As through Channel mists the sun.
     From our tops a fire like rain
       Drove below decks every one
     Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun:
     And that thought took shape as I
       On the "Richard's" yard lay out,
     That a man might do and die,
       If the doing brought about
     Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout!

     IX

     Then I crept out in the dark
       Till I hung above the hatch
     Of the "Serapis,"—a mark
       For her marksmen!—with a match
     And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch
     One last look at sea and sky!
       At the lighthouse on the hill!
     At the harvest-moon on high!
       And our pine flag fluttering still!
     Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill!

     X

     Then a blank was all between
       As the flames around me spun!
     Had I fired the magazine?
       Was the victory lost or won?
     Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done:
     For I lay among the dead
       In the cockpit of our foe,
     With a roar above my head,—
       Till a trampling to and fro,
     And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know!

     CANTO I

     I

     Act first, scene first.  A study.  Of a kind
       Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave;
     Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind
       Of common man to compass or to crave;
     Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined
       The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed
     By text and title, it drew back resigned,
       Nor cared with levity to vex a shade
       That to itself such perfect concord made.

     II

     Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain
       Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth,
     As on the threshold of this chaste domain
       He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth
     To darkened canvases that frowned amain,
       With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began
     To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign,
       Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan,
       Their century fruit,—the perfect Boston man.

     III

     Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom
       A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear:
     "Brief is our business, Jones.  Look round this room!
       Regard yon portraits!  Read their meaning clear!
     These much proclaim MY station.  I presume
       YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit
     And sober judgment shall the youth appear
       Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit
       To serve his country and to honor it."

     IV

     "Such is my son!  Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise
       Trial competitive should guide your choice.
     There are some people I can well surmise
       Themselves must show their merits.  History's voice
     Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies
       In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day,
     Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,—
       Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say;
       In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!"

     V

     He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled,
       On the cropped head of one who stood beside.
     Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child
       Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride;
     'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled
       From soulless Matter processes that served
     For speech and motion and digestion mild,
       Content if all one moral purpose nerved,
       Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved.

     VI

     He was scarce eighteen.  Yet ere he was eight
       He had despoiled the classics; much he knew
     Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight
       On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew,
     His favorite tongue.  He learned, alas! too late,
       One can't begin too early,—would regret
     That boyish whim to ascertain the state
       Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget
       That philologic goal on which his soul was set.

     VII

     He too had traveled; at the age of ten
       Found Paris empty, dull except for art
     And accent.  "Mabille" with its glories then
       Less than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heart
     Nothing if not pure classic.  If some men
       Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit,
     But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen,
       The better to instruct them, through some sheet
       Published in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street."

     VIII

     From premises so plain the blind could see
       But one deduction, and it came next day.
     "In times like these, the very name of G.
       Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J.
     "Inclosed please find appointment."  Presently
       Came a reception to which Harvard lent
     Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit,
       The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent,
       Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment.

     IX

     Four poets came who loved each other's song,
       And two philosophers, who thought that they
     Were in most things impractical and wrong;
       And two reformers, each in his own way
     Peculiar,—one who had waxed strong
       On herbs and water, and such simple fare;
     Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long,"
       And several artists claimed attention there,
       Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere.

     X

     With this indorsement nothing now remained
       But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux;
     No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained,
       And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew.
     A slight publicity, such as obtained
       In classic Rome, these few last hours attended.
     The day arrived, the train and depot gained,
       The mayor's own presence this last act commended
       The train moved off and here the first act ended.

     CANTO II

     I

     Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield
       Turns the whole river eastward through the pass;
     Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed
       Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas;
     Where buttressed low against the storms that wield
       Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm,
     By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled
       Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm
       Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm.

     II

     But not to-night.  The air and woods are still,
       The faintest rustle in the trees below,
     The lowest tremor from the mountain rill,
       Come to the ear as but the trailing flow
     Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill;
       The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm,
     The moon low sailing where the waters fill
       The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm,
       Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm.

     III

     All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high,
       Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past,
     To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie
       And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast;
     Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die
       On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream;
     Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by,
       Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam
       Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream.

     IV

     Soft down the line of darkened battlements,
       Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls,
     Where the low arching sallyport indents,
       Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls.
     All is repose save where the camping tents
       Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound
     No morning guns for reveille, nor whence
       No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found
       Waiting and present on each sentry's round.

     V

     Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave,
       Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame,
     Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave;
       Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame,
     Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave,
       Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves,
     Taught to destroy, that they may live to save,
       Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves,
       Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves.

     VI

     Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed
       From the grim discipline they learn to love;
     In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed,
       In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove;
     One treads once more the piny paths that lead
       To his green mountain home, and pausing hears
     The cattle call; one treads the tangled weed
       Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers;
       One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears.

     VII

     One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine
       The pillared porches of his Southern home;
     One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine
       Of Western woods where he was wont to roam;
     One sees the sunset fire the distant line
       Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down;
     One treads the snow-peaks; one by lamps that shine
       Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town;
       And two are missing,—Cadets Grey and Brown!

     VIII

     Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact,
       That selfsame truant known as "Cadet Grey"
     Was the young hero of our moral tract,
       Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day.
     "Winthrop" and "Adams" dropped in that one act
       Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned
     Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact
       Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned,
     Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was "skinned."